If The Doctor visited a psychologist
by 1madscientist
Summary: One-shot filler. Prequel to character cameo in my other story 'Conversations in Sherlock'. Disclosure: Sherlock only mentioned.


"Tell me your name." The psychologist clicked her pen out.

"The Doctor." The man lay prone with interwoven fingers quite happily on the chaise. His coat spread out onto the floor. He'd insisted on keeping it on.

"Doctor Who? Your file on my computer doesn't say."

"Exactly."

"Your last name is Who? Or was that a soul searching joke?"

"No, whom would say such a thing?"

"Tell me your name."

"The Doctor."

"I'm the doctor."

"Likewise."

The psychiatrist pursed her lips and scribbled _potential bipolar delusion._

"Very well, Mr Doct-"

"The Doctor." He looked over and grinned cheekily.

"Doctor."

"Doctor. Gimme the news. No, sorry, that was bad."

"You've paid in advance. You're wasting your own time and have no attached record of your existence. Why are you here?"

"Why are any of us here?"

"I cannot help if you persist being so evasive, Sir."

"Am I annoying you?"

"No."

"I think I am."

"Are you trying to be?"

"No." He slumped back. "People just get weirded out, I suppose. Come to expect it."

"Why have you come to see me today?"

"Booked an appointment. Felt like talking. Didn't want to bother anyone." He craned his neck to meet the clinician's eyes.

"What do you want to talk about?"

The man sighed. The peculiar yet handsome face contorted with a deeper pain. "Everything. Nothing. The Universe."

"You feel out of place?"

"I feel like an alien." The corner of his lip turned up a little.

"That's normal."

"Not like this."

"Why don't you tell me then?"

"I'm something of a traveller. I'm never in the same place more than a few days."

"Why do you feel the need to move?"

"See something new. Under that same old blanket of stars." He pointed up at the ceiling and smiled.

"A tendency toward novelty."

"Yes!" He sat up and leant forward. "There's so much in this world, all worlds, all of space and time and it's _right there_. Free to explore! How can I be so bored when there's so much new to find?"

"Have you tried settling?"

"I don't fit in. I'm bad news."

"How?"

"People around me get hurt. Not by me of course, but they all leave eventually. I can't stand it." He stared at the floor and ruffled his hair.

"You have abandonment issues."

"No!" he wailed, looking up briefly. A moment passed. The man gulped. "Maybe."

"Tell me about your childhood."

"Er.." The Doctor contorted his lip, thinking. He had to phrase Galifrey in a mundane context. "It was unusual. I uh, grew up basically in an orphanage. And then the orphanage erm... burnt down. I was the only survivor." He frowned, the outer corners of his eyes turned down.

The psychologist stared.

"It wasn't me!" He threw his hands up. "Scout's honour."

"You can't progress until you can talk about the most painful of memories."

"Oh. Which ones? There's so many. I'm the last of my kind, since the orphanage burnt down."

"Could I suggest something?"

"Please."

"You're afraid to settle because you think you bring destruction and pain wherever you go. Magical thinking, entirely fallacious, obviously."

"How do you know?"

"What?"

"I could be. You can't know there's no such thing."

"You can't know there is not."

"I'm a man of science-"

"Ah! A Doctor of a Science! We're getting somewhere."

"I trust evidence. All the evidence points to one conclusions. Hundreds and hundreds of examples. I try to fix things, I tinker, I play around a bit, trying to make things better for my presence, for once."

"How old are you?"

"Older than I look."

"A number would help."

"Oh, er, let's go with nine hundred."

The psychologist rolled her eyes. "Really?"

"Psychotic break?"

"You might be a doctor but you can't diagnose yourself."

"I wasn't. I was reading your mind. But really it's likelier a specialised disorder, were I even human. Lazarus Syndrome?"

"What are you? Alien? What number am I thinking of?"

"Yep. And it doesn't work like that."

"It never does."

"What's your professional opinion? Am I crazy?"

"Psychology doesn't-"

"Oh" he winked, "but it does. All you do is label people, pickle them in drugs and put them on shelves, neat little boxes to fit in the supermarket of society.

"Which section would you be?"

"Marshmallows."

"I dubbed you as more of a mixed nuts man."

"Nah. Squishy, sweet, melty, bubbly, burney, fluffy marshmallows. Actually, an old friend used to call me Mallah, like the cowboy saying Yellah, when I did something 'soft'."

"Your descriptions are vivid."

"Cheers. Perception is important."

"I agree. How do you perceive your place in the Universe?"

"A nomad. A hermit. Pick an archetype, really."

"What would you like to be?"

"I have no idea. I like cities, being around other people."

"That's good."

"So many strange things happen. Outright weird. I can't settle and be normal."

"Why? Worried you'd be bored?"

"You've caught me doc." He inclined his head. "I'm a walking paradox. A mass of fractal contradictions wrapped in an enigma of a mystery."

"Fond of hyperbole."

"Naturally! A propensity to clarity borne of intellectuality! Is that a picture of Einstein I spy on the wall?"

"Yes."

"He's one of my favourites. A common choice, oldie but goodie."

"He was never happy either."

"True. He was right. He died without completing his work, his biggest fear."

"What's your biggest fear? What's your work?"

"To live alone. To just exist. Monotony. I'd like to be someone good, just go around doing good all the time. Yet, for my intentions it goes horribly wrong. I only make things worse."

"What about dying alone?"

"I can't envisage death. I dream of it. Seems peaceful. Sometimes I wish I could sleep like that. A true rest, you know? I wish I'd died with Galifrey."

"Who?"

"The name of the place I grew up."

"Orphanage?"

"Yeah."

"You feel guilty for surviving. Again, irrational, unnecessary."

"You can't know me just by looking at me. No one can."

"One of my patients-"

"Fake."

"Hm?"

"Stage magic, to cold read someone."

"I see another doctor you know, he has a flatmate that could read everything about you."

"What's his name?"

"I can't name my patients."

"The flatmate. What's his work?"

"Detective. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell."

"He's quite famous."

"I'll look him up."

"I'd advice against that."

"Why? He's obviously more qualified than you. No offence."

"This session is over."

"What? C'mon! It's the truth and you know it, that's why you don't like it."

"Over. Out. Get out of my office."

"What's the detective's name again?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Get out."

The Doctor sighed heavily. "That's a shame. Seems I'll never work out my issues. Would probably take longer than a human lifespan anyway." He took out the Sonic Screwdriver. The psychologist flinched, and recoiled, thinking it might be some sort of weapon.

"Thank you for your time." The screwdriver flashed. The psychologist fell asleep.

The Doctor strode out, his overcoat fluttering behind him. A silhouette solitary on the horizon of the city of London.

[Written to explain the Doctor's presence in my Sherlock fic "Conversations in Sherlock".]


End file.
